


Tabloids and Tribulations (Or: Giving Blake a Breather)

by Badendchan



Category: RWBY
Genre: Aftercare, Bees with a healthy D/s dynamic, Can't forget the cuddling that's mandatory, Collars, Cuddling, Discussions Of Kinkier Things Which Do Not Actually Occur Here Yet, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Praise Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vibrators, Yang's a Good Domme and Blake's a Devoted Sub okay, just tired bees squeezin' in some canoodling before bed after a long rough day, yeah this is another mistake huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan
Summary: She’d first spied it leering at her from the rack of lower-than-low-brow tabloids in a convenience store down in Little Mistral. What was intended as a quick jaunt into Vale Proper for a lunch break before sequestering herself in her home office has become a concentrated stressor. One that’s left her hunched on the living room couch, having a grueling staring contest with a magazine cover, like she can scour the thing from existence with rough enough of a glare.["HAS THE BIG CAT BEEN DECLAWED? Strange alt-fashion choice, or a collar for kitty? Our sources catch a glimpse of the White Fang’s own High Leader Blake Belladonna looking a little bit more like a Housecat than a Wildcat for herhumanfiancee in this candid snapshot, taken outside one of Vale’s most exclusive nightclubs."]Godsdammit.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Tabloids and Tribulations (Or: Giving Blake a Breather)

**Author's Note:**

> Had always intended to post *something* to mark the end of hiatus and celebrate Episode 100, but... this is all I've got that's finished right now, so. Y'know. Junk food. Smutty gay self-indulgent low-energy Bees. Nothing to do with crazy horror-movie monster Grimm or the Siege of Atlas.
> 
> Takes place an unspecified amount of time post-Salem - maybe a year and a half or so, putting the Bees 'n everyone else in their mid-20's-ish. For as kinky as the topics referenced and discussed in passing might get, the ACTUAL content here's... pretty tame. Vanilla with chocolate cookie bits. Just a setup fic for further adventures, maybe.
> 
> Unbeta'd, rush-edited, as always. Apologies, also as always. I dunno.

HAS THE BIG CAT BEEN DECLAWED?

_Strange alt-fashion choice, or a collar for kitty? Our sources catch a glimpse of the White Fang’s own High Leader Blake Belladonna looking a little bit more like a Housecat than a Wildcat for her **human** fiancee in this candid snapshot, taken outside one of Vale’s most exclusive, kinkiest nightclubs._

**_(See Pg.12 for our full_ _exposé.)_ **

She’d first spied it leering at her from the rack of lower-than-low-brow tabloids in a convenience store check-out aisle down in Little Mistral.

It would have been better for her mental wellbeing to ignore it, and she probably could have just searched the associated CCT site instead of wasting a whole Ⱡ1.50 on actually buying the damn thing and financially supporting her own defamation, but it was the last one on the rack, and so long as she had it, nobody else could. ‘Til they ordered another batch, at least, but _excuse her_ for not thinking perfectly clearly at a time like this.

What had been _intended_ as a quick jaunt out into Vale Proper for some fresh air and a lunch break before sequestering herself back in her home office has become a concentrated stressor. One that’s left her hunched on the living room couch, having a grueling staring contest with a magazine cover, like she can scour the thing from existence with rough enough of a glare.

 _Gods, damn it._ Blake doesn’t want to cry over something as stupid as this.

The _one_ time. The literal _one_ time she and Yang feel bored, brave, curious, and altogether reckless enough to carefully peek around and explore the wider kink community here in Vale, it backfires.

They’d batted the idea around for the last year-or-so, ever since Vale’s reconstruction efforts had progressed far enough for such places to start publicizing their grand reopenings.

As comfortable as their humble home might be, some _exotic_ sorts of setups and fetishy furniture might prove a bit cumbersome to conceal, or convoluted to throw together, even with all their combined engineering expertise. So, to be able to find a club with rooms and gear for rent? Could be helpful! ...In theory.

It’s not like they’d even DONE anything compromising there, either! They’d quite literally checked their coats, wandered straight for the far end of the bar in back, and had a cocktail or three whilst those intrepid souls with far more exhibitionist tendencies gathered in the play areas closer to the stage, to watch an experienced rigger give a Mistrali-style ropework demonstration.

_Then! They! Left!_

The club they’d chosen for their loitering was vetted up and down ahead of time for its reputability, discretion, and safety, with a policy against unsolicited recordings even requiring scrolls to be left at the door. Unfortunately, that promise of security only covers what goes on within its walls.

Ergo, some enterprising paparazzo, fully aware of how scandalously mainstream society sees the lifestyle, must’ve carved out a career staking out such social scenes and snapping material of any and all faces familiar to the public eye. If it had been undeniable evidence, perhaps they’d’ve bumped it up to blackmail, but as-is, the best they could do is selling fuel for saucy gossip.

Ugh. A _‘checkmark on their bucket list,’_ that’s all the visit was supposed to be, and now, it’s the kindling for a potential geopolitical incident.

It was already hard enough, when first exploring their intimacy years ago, to explain to _Yang_ what D/s meant to her. To clear out all the misconceptions and stereotypes, make her see just how deeply it runs, and unintentionally unearth Yang’s caring, dominant instinct in the process – borne of that subconscious desire to protect and support, thus be needed, and in being needed, to never be left behind.

So the mainstream, the pearl-clutchers, they don’t understand what their dynamic means to the both of them, they could _never._ Wouldn’t even have the guts to try, when infantilizing her is so simple. Plus, they see a faunus acting submissively in a romantic, consensual context after all the generations of systematic oppression – for a human, no less – and their minds rocket off in the wrong direction entirely.

And if that particular faunus should be the _Literal Leader Of The Foremost Faunus Rights, Advocacy, And Liberation Coalition In All Of Remnant,_ their collective minds will boggle, shit will flip, rivers will run red and the moon’ll be blown a second blast crater.

Nevermind that Blake knows _full-godsdamned-well_ the difference between situational, consensual exchange of power within an intimate relationship, and oppressive control. Nevermind how she herself aided raids on dust-mines and labor camps in her adolescence, personally broke shackles and tracking anklets off of emaciated workers. _And then, everything with Adam…_

Blake sighs, long and sullen.

 _No._ She, of all people, knows the difference between the collar of a slave, and the one she was gifted out of love.

It’s not as if she feels fully isolated in being the only one with a submissive lean among her friends and acquaintances. She frequently exchanges stories with Velvet, content in her own happy, devious dealings with Coco, Nora’s drunkenly bragged about her great accomplishments loosening up Ren, Ilia doesn’t have a domme bone in her body – having a whip-mode in her weapon isn’t fooling anyone. Emerald is… well, she’s Emerald.

She’s had her _suspicions_ about Weiss, but by extension, that means analyzing either Ruby or Penny's capacity for theoretically playing the dominant role; something she _morally cannot process_ because that’s her SISTER-IN-LAW, and Penny is the Sweet Cinnamon Roll Maiden! So, that string won’t be tugged any time soon, even if she thinks it totally _would_ take the edge off the ice princess to settle on her knees every once and a while; it always works for Blake, when she’s anxious about running _her own_ global organization.

And gods, she wouldn't even be the first huntress in their extended social circle to have a _collar,_ either! No matter how much she vehemently denied it, Blake SAW that Marigold woman wearing _hers_ beneath her scarf way back during the Siege of Atlas, rubbing at the O-ring like a worrystone when she thought no one was looking. For a huntress whose specialty is stealth, one would think she’d be more subtle.

_...Not like Blake is one to talk, though. Especially when she just got caught on camera, too close to confirmation for comfort._

Groaning out loud in the empty house, she buries her head in her hands, feline ears fully flattened out over her scalp. _What a miserable fucking Thursday._

She sits scrunched like that for few seconds more before her scroll buzzes with an alarm, reminding her of an upcoming conference call she needs to manage. All across the table surrounding the gossip magazine still lies a buttload-and-a-half of paperwork and drafting left on her White Fang docket for the day… and she’s already procrastinated enough.

Blake forces a few deep breaths through her nose and shunts herself back to business, faking an affable, cardboard-thin confident tone for her fellow Fang members as she takes the call, all the while that magazine cover looms, screeching silently in the back of her brain.

She’ll just repress the angst about this ‘til later. _Because that’s healthy, and can’t possibly backfire on her mood in any conceivable way!_

* * *

Yang’s Thursday is actually going pretty darn great, if you ask her!

Any day she gets to catch an airship back to Patch and tag in as an assistant teacher for her father’s combat training lessons down at Signal Academy always makes for a fun afternoon; A chance to help the next generation of huntsmen and huntresses, and _maybe_ get her ego massaged just a bit from all the kids gawking and gaping over getting to learn with a real live member of the famous Team RWBY.

Plus, it just feels good to know that with Grimm attacks at an all-time low since the defeat of their undying queen, these young faces, or the ones to come just after, might live long enough to see an end to the tide of darkness in its entirety.

It was just a lesson in theory today, with a couple demos up in front of the class, so not enough to get her a proper workout. While she and the rest of the team have long since bumped down to part-time huntresses after a bit of post-saving-the-world burnout, Yang’s never let herself go rusty. She still hits up quick hunts close to home, further out if there’s a call to get the band back together again, and hey, the official personal bodyguard of the White Fang’s High Leader can’t lose her chiseled bod!

_...And aforementioned High Leader might also, coincidentally, happen to love snuggling up against that chiseled bod, so like, bonus?_

So, going a few hours at the Hunters’ Guild-sponsored training hall and its associated gym is enough to scratch that itch and keep her from getting antsy. This particular flavor of exhaustion after some exercise, coupled with the promise of a comfy evening at home, cooking dinner and cuddling with her fiancee? Spirits are high!

Wind billowing her hair, roaring down the road on her humble _Bumblebee Mk. II,_ Yang brakes to a more sensible speed as she hooks off the main streets of Vale and into the humble little borough where the team comes to roost. Ruby, Penny and Weiss are all still up in Solitas trying to help stitch together the steaming mess that is Atlas, so she’s still got to head across the street and water their plants here soon.

But, eh, she’s not in THAT much of a rush. Those plants might be a mite thirsty, but she’s feeling pretty thirsty herself, and the only thing on tap for her is a tall(ish) drink of water named _Blake._

Yang glides into the garage, neatly slotting Bumblebee next to the lumpy pile of unfinished metal scrap which one day might, with some elbow grease, eventually end up being a matching motorcycle for her partner. Whipping out her scroll to shut the door behind her, she hauls her gym bag over her shoulder and plods off to the living room.

“Honey, I’m hooo– Oooh, grapes.”

Well, there’re a few red flags she can see straightaway.

The living room coffee table’s an absolute mess of strewn papers and file folders, not to mention two _(2)_ half-empty mugs of cold tea sitting straight on the wood, no coasters in sight, precariously close to both the edge, and an abandoned, open scroll. The colorful Menagerian _tifaifai_ quilt from Kali’s care packages has been jostled enough to topple from its place of honor on the back of the couch, landing in a lumpy bundle.

Blake’s standards are nowhere close to Schnee-levels of meticulousness, but she still likes to keep a clean house. This is… _not that._

The faunus herself is tightly crouched on the couch, having not yet changed into the sort of cozy, casual getup she prefers when she’s free from the looming threat of professional video conference calls. There she sits, _actually watching_ the talking heads from VNN on the evening news instead of getting her updates from a less biased digest, and downing intermittent spoonfuls straight from that tub of _Ready-2-Eat_ cookie dough they keep around for when Ruby’s over.

One could almost mistake Blake for human, from how tightly her feline ears are buried against her head.

But the most conclusive evidence that it’s not all peaches and cream in _Blakesburg_ today is only spied once Yang drops off her gym junk and circles around the couch. It’s initially obscured by the long veil of Blake’s hair – not that she’s complaining it’s grown back out, she’s a huge fan! – but a glaring warning light ignites the moment she sees Blake’s throat is _bare._

It took Yang a long time to really wrap her noodle around her lover’s mindset as a submissive in the lifestyle, but with how much steadier Blake professed to be ever since they’d gotten her collar, how it helped with her anxieties and self-doubts, kept a cap on depressive spikes… it’s not normal at all to ever see her without it at home, or even the day-collar stand-in of the thin choker necklace when in public.

“Oh. Hey.”

Yang deactivates her laser-focus on the column of Blake’s neck, and flicks a few inches higher to fire off her best, if confused, reassuring smile. “You, uh. You doing okay, babe?”

In lieu of a verbal response, Blake pops the dough-slathered spoon out of her mouth and uses it to gesture loosely towards the center of the table.

Caught up in the mess as a set piece, Yang hadn’t paid close enough attention to pick out the glossy, obnoxious, poorly-typeset, undeniably _loud_ cover of the trashy tabloid until just now.

Her brows knit, and she plucks it up in her prosthetic hand, an ice-cold recognition spilling down her back as she sees herself on the page, and worse still at Blake in center-frame. When she gets around to reading the slanderous splash of text, she can’t control a second-long flicker of furious crimson burning in her eyes.

“...Shit.”

“Tell me about it,” grumbles Blake, spooning herself up another dose of dough.

“Just – Where do they even get off saying that kind of – And ‘kitty,’ seriously!? Even I only get away with calling you ‘Kitten,’ and that’s because it’s _me!_ ” Yang seethes, sensing a rant rumbling forth and making the conscious effort to bar it off, at least until she’s seen to Blake’s frumpled state.

The picture itself is somewhat clear in resolution quality, but at a rushed, opportunistic angle: The two of them on the sidewalk just outside the nightclub, bundled in warm jackets overtop their slinkier, shinier clubwear. It’s not like they’d been caught in the door, but still close enough for eager rumormongers to argue they hadn’t merely been walking by. And sure enough, after some requisite squinting, Yang can make it out: a thin line of black looping Blake’s neck where shadow doesn’t obscure it.

“Wait, were there more than this?” she asks, flipping to the so-called _expos_ _é_ _._ “They only got this shot of the choker, not your real one...? So, there’s nothing to really worry about, right?”

Blake’s sigh is long and labored behind her. “I mean, sure, it… It was after we swapped back and left, so it was only my day collar, but…” She shrugs, shoulders weighty with stress. “Since when would the average person know the difference? Or care? As long as they can cast doubt and spin it like they’re the same thing because the club’s in view, it won’t matter. Not if it gets clicks and pushes mags…”

The faunus finally sticks the lid back on the cookie dough and absently drums the spoon against the side, laughing bitterly. “Guess they tricked me too, if even I still bought one.”

There’s no time, and definitely no interest for Yang to read the entire article, but a reluctant skim seems to prove it’s literally all talk. The same picture from the cover is plastered over again, complete with a grainy ‘enhanced’ zoom at Blake’s neck.

Various snapshots from public appearances Blake’s made either as a member of RWBY after Salem’s defeat, or since her ascension as High Leader, make up the rest of the garbage article’s visual aids.

Almost all of them seem to be playing up innocuous gestures or ways in which she’d cuddled up to Yang for a photo as _definitive proof_ that the notable faunus rights advocate is… Oh, secretly a slave to human interests, a human _fetishist,_ a depraved nymphomaniac, any number of wild pulls straight out of their collective ass.

Nobody with a barely-functioning brain would take this sort of slander as gospel, same as any of the rest of the awful articles and ads Blake’s borne since ascending the throne. And while Yang’s more than sympathetic to her beloved’s stress, it still surprises her it’s hitting this hard. They used to _collect_ these sorts of things, laughed about them on social media, even joked about making a scrapbook.

“Okay… Okay, we’ll handle this,” Yang assures, letting the magazine plap to the tabletop. She drops into the cushion next to her fiancee and tosses her human arm around her shoulders. “But I guess I’m just curious? You never cared so much about these shitty gossip rags before, why now?”

Blake sulks, but her groan’s bemoaning the situation at large rather than her lover. “Because _before,_ it was all just the same old racist propaganda about my species! I’ve been learning to handle that kind of abuse since I was old enough to hold my own picket sign!”

She pinches the bridge of her nose and slowly kneads it. “THIS is… different. It’s not just tied to some aspect of my body I had no control over, it’s about a part of _who I am as a person.”_

Yang tries to get a word in, but Blake quickly appends: “Oh, and the part where it might destabilize my image as a viable leader for the Faunus people if it spreads any further, destroying everything I’ve worked towards, and what my _parents_ worked towards, and throw away progress for _every faunus in Remnant_ who’ve–“

Nope, Yang’s already seeing the precarious cliff further down the train tracks, and slams the emergency brake, tugging Blake in for a firm hug. “M’kay, I get your point, and it’s fair, but like I said – we’ll handle this! But we’ll handle it later. Right _now,_ I’m not worried about Miss Madame Fancypants High Leader Belladonna.”

She dips in close, close enough for her lips to tickle the tips of Blake’s flattened upper ears, and drops her voice into a sultry murmur. “I’m worried about my _Kitten.”_

The ear _twitches._ Yang smiles right up against it, kissing the fuzz.

“So, here’s what I’m thinkin’. Let’s push real dinner ‘til tomorrow. We’ve got some leftovers we can heat up quick. I’m still all sweaty and gross from the gym, so I’m gonna go grab a shower.”

“Mhm?”

“While I’m doing that…”

Even if Blake can’t see it, Yang can’t keep her calm, sexy smirk from seeping over into her tone. “First, you’re gonna tidy up down here, take off all those itchy daytime clothes… Grab a set of nice, comfy jammies for the both of us and lay ‘em out in the bedroom. Then you’re gonna go grab your collar, and wait for me, okay?”

Definitely, very-definitely okay. Yang’s orders, simple as they come, are bracing. An explicitly simple framework: a set path to follow, and succeed, and be rewarded for. Nothing at all like the whirlwind chaos of _‘What If’s_ and _‘How the hell am I supposed to’s_ rattling around in her brain. Something stable on which to focus. Center herself.

It’s meditative, in a way.

Blake gives a slow nod, and a mumbled, _only-somewhat-sassy_ “Yes, ma’am.”

Pleased as punch to hear it, Yang releases her fiancee from the side-hug and tousles her hair.

“Cool. I’ll be out in just a bit, babe.”

Yang hops up off the couch, only detouring to hang her jacket up on the rack before setting course for their bedroom, to hog the connected bath. The echo of rushing water from upstairs is the sort of white noise that almost lulls Blake to zone out some more, but – But nope, she’s got her goals set right ahead of her.

With some protests from her seized-up joints, and a mental note marked not to skip her own workouts for another week, she stands, stretches, and gets to work.

* * *

The shower cutting out is Blake’s signal to get into position.

Not that Yang had actually _given_ her any instruction on how specifically to wait for her, other than quite literally to _wait for her,_ but this is one faunus who likes appealing to the _aesthetic._

When the bathroom door swings inward, and a damp, naked, one-armed Yang wanders forth from the cloud of fragrant steam, she smiles wide and wicked at what she finds. Sure enough, a set of their softest, most broken-in nightclothes for each of them, folded over on the dresser, and Blake dutifully waiting for her return.

 _“Yeah, there’s my **good girl,** ”_ she croons, tiding her love over as she towels off.

Blake does a poor job of repressing her sheer joy at the praise; she trembles visibly from where she kneels in a perfect _seiza_ posture, just on the edge of the couple’s bed, collar resting in her lap. Not the pithy punk fashion choker, the ‘day collar’ for the public eye. _The one that matters._

Yang finishes her rushed towel-down and wads it up, pulling a flawless bank shot off the back wall and into the laundry basket. Once she’s refastened her prosthetic, she handles the rest in her tried-and-true, if haphazard method: Channeling her semblance, and punching one fist hard into a waiting palm, dispersing the impact energy in a quick burst of heat and drying her luxurious hair in a flash.

From halfway across the room, Blake is not at all subtle in her staring, eyes devouring every bare inch of her beloved. _Been together years, and she’ll never tire of that view._

Approaching her slowly, even kicking an extra sway of the hips with every step, Yang isn’t looking _smug,_ not like she does when gloating over a cheesy joke, raising hackles or riling up her girlfriend in public. It’s a look reserved solely for Blake, a certain flavor of self-assured. Sexy, by way of its indisputable confidence. Channeling calm dominance as easily as she channels aura, and relishing it.

Gods, is Blake glad they’re already engaged, or Yang might just steal her heart all over again.

The blonde halts just short of the bed, and even from Blake’s position perched upon the mattress, her fiancee still has the height advantage. Beckoning with two fingers, she waits until she’s handed a very special item.

“Now, let’s get this back where it belongs.”

Late in the war against Salem, they’d picked up a preliminary sort of collar; a plain, unremarkable style in basic black, right off the rack. It served its symbolic purpose well, and had sentimental value enough for being their starter while Blake and Yang explored their sexuality and dynamic together. Sadly, the original was lost in the chaos of conflict.

What Blake happily hands over is its dignified replacement, her _real_ collar – custom-made, personalized, completely theirs. The base shade remains black, best befitting Blake’s style, but the stitchwork and detailing all bears a bright golden sheen, same as the metal of the eyelets and O-ring. Just off to the side, a familiar burning-heart emblem in that same yellow stakes a certain huntress’ claim, while a stylized _atropa belladonna_ flower charm dangles from the front.

It’s no secret between the two of them: Blake adores it even more than her engagement ring.

The usual routine goes off without a hitch. Automatically, Blake reaches to gather up lengths of ink-black hair in a temporary ponytail, baring her throat. Baring her vulnerability, her fractured, yet ever-unbroken self.

Yang leans in close, placing her lips to Blake’s temple in a soothing kiss, while the leather band is brought around her neck: fastened snugly, but safely, its presence as warm as the touch of her beloved.

“Color?” Yang whispers, before she dares to pull back.

Blake’s gut response comes out as a stuttered “Gre–“ when she’s stricken with her actual responsibility. Her promise to be honest about any concerns, no matter how slight, no matter the perceived ‘nuisance.’ “Y-yellow, actually?” she whispers. “Still wanna do this, just don’t… think I’m good for anything heavy tonight, is all.”

Yang giggles. At a quirked brow from her beau, she shakes her head, grinning down at her. “Nothing to worry about there, baby. Slow ‘n sweet’s the order of the day.” Twin hands, metal and flesh, come to massage Blake’s shoulders, urging her to ease the posture, let her hair back down. “Way I see it, we can have a real sesh this weekend… Saturday, maybe? Make a whole day of it, lock the doors, turn off our scrolls.”

The ghostly image of a day planner app barges its way unbidden into Blake’s mind. For Saturday she’d already blocked in a call to her parents, and a solid ‘maybe’ on a power lunch with a prospective event coordinator for a pro-faunus benefit. Can always move the call home to tomorrow, and then rearrange– _And Yang’s still talking. Stop thinking business, stop thinking details. Just… let go. Yang’s here._

“Tonight, though... I’m a bit tired, you’re tired, but I’m still seeing a whole lot of stress that makes me wanna… Just wanna wring it aaaaaall out, nice ‘n easy.”

 _Well, she’s not wrong!_ Returning her hands to her lap, Blake gives an agreeable hum, while Yang abruptly swoops in to bounce backwards onto the bed beside her, sitting at an angle with one toned leg curled in on the bed, the other dangling freely off the side.

“Up in my lap, Kitten.”

Obeying requires some tricky maneuvering, some unintentional ass-wiggling, tipping and teetering to balance just right atop Yang’s lap at an angle; the pose, better suited for a couch, still works well enough. Blake sinks backwards against Yang’s soft chest and firm muscle, the beautiful dichotomy of her body. She has to stretch both her own arms back behind her to bracket Yang’s hips – a convenient way to keep her hands occupied in the absence of cuffs tonight.

Yang, meanwhile, brings _her_ arms around her fiancee’s front, left cinching around Blake’s waist to hold her close, the right splaying fingers over her outer thigh, skimming further and further inward each passing moment.

“Wanna feel you cum on my fingers, baby. You give me one for starters, okay? One, then we’ll take a break, heat up a snack, recharge a bit… And see how you feel about giving me some more?”

 _“Gods, yes,”_ Blake breathes, pale skin tingling along the steady path of Yang’s gleaming metal fingers until at last they flit over her folds, and give a tentative vertical stroke.

Contrary to countless crass jokes cracked by the wider group – almost exclusively Nora – upon their reunion after The Fall, Yang’s prosthetic arm did not, in fact, contain a ‘personal massager’ functionality. That would have been ridiculous, of course it didn’t – Which is why Yang had to mod it in herself! Over the course of one’s journey to save the world, a huntress is gonna get stressed out, alright? Especially when sometimes she’ll be split up from her beautiful girlfriend at a time of dire need!

Now, it’s said girlfriend – rather, fiancee – who gets to enjoy the spoils and _be_ spoiled by the thrumming vibrations of Yang’s cool synthetic fingers, once they shudder to life. Blake shudders, too. _“Yang…!”_

“Ooh! There we go!” coos Yang, sultry and saccharine. “Y’know how much I love hearing my name like that.” Succumbing to a whim, she leans in over Blake’s right shoulder and nips firmly at the lobe of her lower, hominid ear. “All the sounds you make. Anything you say with that sexy voice.”

Oxygen is already becoming a scarce resource, but Blake spends some of her reserve to dryly snark, “All of them? Even when… _h-hah…_ even when I snore? Nag at you for tr- For tracking machine oil in the house? Groan at your – Ah! – awful jokes…?”

“Mm-hmm, even those.” The retort comes with a tiny tug, Yang setting loose her ear and sliding down, teeth gently scraping her jaw. “But hey, if you’re gonna smart off at me like that, I could always call it quits...”

Steely fingers brushing over Blake’s damp outer lips go still. The sudden absence of vibration slams her right into a wall, the meager momentum of their foreplay scattering like dying embers, _and she needs it back, she needs it back right NOW._

“No, no-no-no, come on, I’m– I’ll be guh... I’ll be–” Blake begs, hips jutting to chase after the fingers in retreat, felid ears curling downward.

Yang’s left hand squeezes the faunus’ body tighter to her own, keeping her from slipping right off her lap. “You’ll be good? M’just teasing, I know you will, always are. Even when you’re a brat-cat.”

Blake’s grunt of need chains into a moan once the plea is answered, Yang engaging the buzz-buzzing of her hand once again and plunging middle- and forefinger into her, side by side. The tentative tingles that dissipate along the surface of her sex become earthquakes in their own right, once Yang’s buried both fingers to the second joint.

While Yang’s right hand starts to test the waters with tentative inch-long thrusts, she frees the other to explore. Higher up, Blake’s breasts have gone a bit neglected, and that simply won’t do. Copping a handful, Yang freely gropes her lover’s chest, feeling her nipples pebbling under her palm. She tweaks one, experimentally, and Blake’s back arches, a gasp bitten back. The sting immediately melts into a frisson of fresh endorphins, just the right balance of pain for their play.

“That’s a good one too,” Yang mulls against Blake’s skin, hovering at the column of skin high on her neck, just above the cut-off of her collar. Blake never made the mistake of assuming she’d escape the night without a few hickeys, and Yang is all-too-happy to prove her right, sinking teeth, suckling, drawing out a blooming blotch. “And this is nothing, next to all the noises I’m gonna get out of you this weekend.”

That’s a threat and a half, one Blake thinks had better be more of a promise. She’s enjoying herself, pliant in Yang’s grip, rutting down on her fingers ‘til she hits the last knuckle, but– Gods, if they weren’t so tired tonight, she’d beg for so much more, she _needs_ more, wants to really feel it marrow-deep. Yang’s care, her possessiveness, her love.

The blonde’s human fingers take to sluggishly swirling around an areola, her metal digits slowing down and searching for sweet spots. Yang must sense that she’s starting to drift in her thoughts, and decides to give her a nudge, float her in the right direction. 

“Any good ideas for next time, hon? How I can really make you sound off? It’s gotta be, like, a month since I’ve had you over my knee…”

Blake shudders in debauched delight, both physical and mental stimulus at play, and rasps out a lust-tinged _“F-f-fuck…”_ It has, actually, been quite a while since Yang’s taken her over the knee, spanked her a pretty pink, given her ass a proper working-over for that rush of happy chemicals. “It– Yeah… Maybe yuh… you should...”

The buzzing fingers inside her start to scissor vertically, wet metal curling up-up-and-in, conveniently hitting a weak point as Blake’s body jerks, a foot twitching outward with the spasm.

“Or maybe we could break out the ropes again…? Should have enough left for another day’s worth of decent fun, and baby, you looked so damn _pretty_ last time, full harness and everything. What d’ya think, tie a toy inside this time, or just knots on the crotchrope?”

Blake can’t even respond properly, nothing past a flush-faced, flustered whine.

How Yang can sound so unaffected while airing their shared dirty daydreams, two – No, fuck, three, now _three_ whirring fingers deep inside her pussy and pumping hard, is beyond her. So much for that head-start Blake had being the kinkier one at the start of their relationship; now her domme can match her blow for blow, sharp mind perfect for the logistics of fetish fantasies, ecstatic to torment her in the most wonderful, wanton ways.

A sharp blast of sensation bolts up Blake’s body, her shameless moan so loud she cups a hand to her mouth on instinct and fumbles for balance, falling further back against her fiancee. She’s almost there, she could probably suck it up and savor _just_ what Yang’s giving her, but… but she’s slipping, growing more needy the more she lets herself let go and submit, she wants to get out of her head, wants to hit her climax and shake out all the debris.

“My…” Blake swallows thick and gives it another go, head pitching back. “M-my clit, could you…? Just a little, Yang, please...”

Yang’s grin gets toothy. It’s always a good sign when Blake begs; means she’s not as strongly stifled by her irrational worries, her latent fear of being _‘too much.’_

“You got it. You know I’m always gonna take care of my Kitten.”

Yang falls backwards onto their mussed-up baby-blue bedsheets, bringing Blake down with her. Now with a hand to spare, the blonde hauls Blake into a good position laying splayed on top of her, and goes in for the killshot: Kissing her tenderly when she lolls her head to the side, all the while the liberated left hand sweeps in over her little love button, firmly rubbing and rolling it. The right punches up the intensity, the vibrations switching to a pulsing pattern, fingers crooked in and fishing for her G-spot to stark success.

Blake’s liable to explode at any moment, be blown all to pieces for Yang to stick together again, but she… No, she can’t, not until she has one more thing.

“D-Dust, I can’t… I’m so close– Yang, tell me I can… please let me cum…!”

On her end, Yang always gets a particularly potent thrill in her heart from being handed such control. Blake wants her permission, and for lighter play like this, there’s no chance she’ll stretch it out, make her wait, see how much she can take. Blake’s so keyed up, and it’s a hell of a turn on to know she’s stalling her satisfaction, all for that last element, all to be a faithful sub.

Thumbing Blake’s clit like a primed detonator, Yang’s prosthetic fingers strike a chord deep inside her, and it’s all she can do to hold out ‘til Yang husks, “Do it. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

Suffused with the relentless burst of sexual release, Blake’s aura gives her body a split-second glow as the faunus finds her peak, a wavering, unsteady moan tearing free from her chest. Hips bucking high, she fucks herself on Yang’s fingers, golden alloy now soaked with her slick. Feels so good, so right to be like this. This is what she fought a war to earn, the right to be undone in Yang’s hands, safe and satisfied.

The moans turn to mewls as Yang helps her sub ride out a few stray waves. For a minute or so, the room’s quiet is only impugned by hoarse panting, and the low-frequency droning of Yang’s fingers vibrating at their lowest, until she finally cuts the power to the augmentation.

Even if their quickie might not’ve been enough to send her on a little subspace trip, Blake’s senses are still temporarily reduced to clouds and cotton-fluff and watercolor smears, barely aware of herself being dragged further up the bed. There’s a solid mass of inviting warmth pressed against her side, and mustering what muscle control she has, the faunus flops against it.

Yang snickers quietly, delighted as ever to see her fiancee gone all to mush, and pulls her into an even tighter cuddle. The warmth between them is the best sort of sweltering. “D’aww… Clingy Kitten. Was that good, baby? D’you still want some more tonight?”

_Oh, yeah, words. Those… noises you make with your mouth to tell people stuff. Blake thinks she knows how to do those._

“I can, I can do… I’ve definitely got another in me, if you’ll give me a minute…” she mumbles, lips half-smushed into Yang’s skin, sweet and citrus-scented from her shower.

“Yeah, I’m in the mood for more, too. But hey, like I said, slow ‘n sweet, right?”

Yang gingerly cards a hand through Blake’s rumpled hair, clearing out the strands stuck to her brow. “But we’ve got all night if we want, and we _both_ need a recharge. Think you’ll be good if I get up for a bit? Just to head downstairs, not going anywhere else.” She knows Blake’s habitually cuddly after sex – triply so whenever having a longer, kink-laden session – and a few surprise subdrops’ve gotten her wary of leaving Blake alone too soon, even if it is to prep some all-important aftercare.

This shouldn’t run that much of a risk though, since they’d barely gotten into the groove, since they’re both still a bit frazzled from the day, rather than really getting into their respective headspaces.

“L’be fine,” Blake sighs, lethargically pushing herself out of her otherwise comfy spot. “Not like I went under or anything, go, go do… your stuff. Whatever.” Eloquent. Truly the daughter of diplomats.

Yang seats herself upright and gives Blake’s feline ears a quick scritchy. “If you’re sure. I’ll go reheat us something terrible and greasy, get something to drink. And hey – I know how you operate, Belladonna, I don’t want you getting up off this bed. No sneaking off to try ‘n do any work, got it?”

Though, once Yang’s gone and hopped off the bed, she catches herself on the doorway and chuckles. “Unless, like, y’gotta pee or something, but – Whatever, back in a minute, love you!”

_Dork._

Blake drops her head onto her double-stack of pillows, one arm folded behind, the other gently fidgeting with the emblem charm on her collar.

_Yep… Yang is a dork. She’s also her domme, her partner, her soulmate… and here in the near future: her wife._

_What was all that about black cats and bad luck, again?_

* * *

For such big talk of getting wrung dry, it seems three is their limit for the night; two-and-a-half, really, by the time Blake taps out too tired to run the last mile for the third, and one for Yang ground out somewhere in the middle straddling Blake’s frantically twitching thigh.

It only strikes Yang after-the-fact that spending a few sexually-charged hours off-and-on rubbing against her faunus fiancee would also, coincidentally, result in another thin sheen of sweat and cancel out her post-workout shower.

Since they’ve already conspired to flagrantly violate the vaunted _No Eating In Bed_ treaty tonight – noshing on leftover take-out noodles in between bouts – it’s not that much further to slip into slovenliness by simply settling for a damp toweling-off and making plans to share a nice long bubble bath in the morning.

And to change the sheets. They probably should’ve seen that coming, what with all the… _cumming._

“You were thinking of something awful, weren’t you?” Blake asks, popping Yang’s thought bubble with a sharp quirk of her brow. “You had that grin. That awful-pun grin.”

After slipping into their cozy nightclothes, she’d given Blake permission to scamper downstairs and go take care of some legitimate affairs before bed; to go pitch their empty noodle cartons in the trash, grab her scroll, do a last-minute check around the house before lights-out. In the meantime, Yang culled the mess they’d made of the bedding into something dubiously fit for use.

“Hm… Nah, not a pun. Barely even counted as wordplay. I’ll spare you this time, ‘cuz I love you.”

“My, how gracious,” Blake snarks, hitting the overhead lights and meandering to her side of the bed. She flops ungracefully onto the mattress, and blindly gropes around by the nightstand for the charger to her scroll. As she fits the thing and starts to set it aside, she stalls. Someone _might_ have mailed her back about some recent White Fang deliberations, or Ruby might have pinged the team…

As she watches from the other end of the bed, propped on an elbow, it both amuses and irks Yang that despite their mutual sexual exhaustion, her fiancee’s still capable of forcing herself to be productive, even in the last minutes before tucking in. It’s giving Yang a keener craving to edge her a little more next time, run her up the wall, overstimulated and gushing, ‘til she’s well and truly spent… Put her good and deep into subspace, where last-second, off-the-clock work mail holds no sway.

“C’mon,” Yang groans, albeit with a shallow laugh attached, and rubs at Blake’s arm. “You can check it in the morning. Your _Wise, Eminent, Super-Sexy Mistress_ demands snuggles!”

Blake snorts like she’s choking on a cherry pit, and with all the overstated sarcasm she can muster this late, snaps her scroll closed with a flick of the wrist, setting it on the nightstand. “My _Mistress_ also knows I have a lot of responsibilities…”

The switch is flicked, the room plunged into a darkness that only proves a hassle for human eyes. When the faunus turns, she can still see Yang beaming at her dimly-lit outline, holding up the covers and ushering her inside.

_Well. Who is she to disobey such a kindly invitation?_

“Ch’yeah, she does… and she also knows you let this stuff wear you down _waaay_ too often,” Yang replies, drawing Blake in to rest on her chest, head snuggled beneath her chin. “I’m gonna call Weiss tomorrow, by the way. Ask her about safe ways to handle…”

Yang does a complex little nonsense hand gesture with her unoccupied right hand. _‘The Tabloid’_ need not be directly addressed by name, lest it gain power and overthrow them like some old fae spirit.

“Even get her to lend us her lawyers if I have to. They’d know how to deal with paparazzi stuff, even if her case wasn’t… like this.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble… I know I’m probably just overthinking it...”

“Nope, don’t try that on me. It’s a legit problem, and if it’s making you worry… then we deal with it. Besides…” Yang gently nudges Blake’s head back, tipping her chin upwards to face her. “Even if they’re right, even if it’s true you’re mine… doesn’t mean the rest of the world gets to creep on what we have. Or try to ruin it because they don’t understand.”

 _You’re godsdamned right,_ Blake thinks, but in lieu of the tired profanity, she simply closes the last inch between their lips, and hums contentedly into a proper kiss to end the evening.

Yang’s breath hitches in surprise, but is warm between them when she sighs happily and pushes right back, sliding their lips together a time or two more before she’s sated.

Blake pulls free and gives her wife-to-be a serene smile, then nestles back under her chin. “Goodnight, Sunflower. Love you.”

Yang giggles softly – and only _partly_ because Blake’s fidgety-fuzzy upper ears tickle her jawline while settling into place.

“G’night, Moonlight. Right back at’cha.”

**Author's Note:**

> welp. uh. sorry about all that. definitely not hot enough for porn and definitely not substantial enough for story-fluff, I know.  
> Dunno why I'm doing this. m'not getting any better at it and m'just kinda humiliating myself and it's not gonna fill the yawning chasm, y'know?  
> buuuuuut it was the only thing I had done since I've had major writers block for like 3 weeks now...  
> had meant to MAYBE do trial-run first-chapter to the V5-V6 continuation of [Fight] Not Flight, or work on my cliched Happy Huntress pre-canon stuff, but...  
> your girl really be goin' through it tbh.  
> haaaaaaaaa help me.


End file.
